Following the Caboose in Muscat

In Oman, Sultan Qaboos is everywhere. You drive into town from the airport on Sultan Qaboos Street. You visit the Sultan Qaboos Mosque. Ships call at the Sultan Qaboos Docks. Students get degrees at Sultan Qaboos University. A framed image of the Sultan hangs in every business. His handsome, white bearded, gravely paternal face smiles down from every overpass.

While this may seem odd to Western visitors, it is de rigeur in the Middle East. What makes Sultan Qaboos’ ubiquity unique is that Omanis actually seem to love him. Like Thailand’s beloved King Bhumibol, Sultan Qaboos is seen as having worked tirelessly for the modernisation of Oman and the betterment of his people. Not once did I hear an Omani make a disparaging remark about him. In contrast, most were adulatory.

In 1970, the young Qaboos engineered (with British assistance) a nearly bloodless palace coup, overthrowing his father. At the time, Oman was largely closed to outsiders and still described as ‘medieval’ by some commentators.

The growing lucre from oil and gas deposits discovered within the prior decade had enriched only a few. There were only six kilometres of paved roads and very limited electrification. The new Sultan immediately set about changing that, spending heavily on infrastructure, healthcare and education.

In the first year of his reign, Sultan Qaboos abolished slavery in Oman. This decree was very significant when you consider that historically, Omani sultans were the kingpins of the east African slave trade, operating from bases in Zanzibar and Lamu Islands. He also declared freedom of religion in Oman, and even financed the construction of  Christian churches and Hindu temples.

“Caboose! Caboose!” the boys shrieked every few minutes. We were playing “Spot the Sultan”, an improvised version of “Slug Bug” without the punching. I had taught them that the Sultan’s name was the same as the last carriage in a train, spelling be damned.

These ‘moronic devices’ as my father likes to call them (‘mnemonic’ being too difficult to remember) really work. I also taught them the names of the two countries (Yemen, Oman) as the exclamations of two Jamaicans concluding an arm wrestling match.

It may come as a surprise to you – it certainly did to me – that Airbnb had already penetrated Oman. We spent our first night in an apartment building opposite the Royal Opera House. A few days later, we stayed in a house in Nizwa. And during our last two nights in Muscat we relaxed in a wonderful, expatriate focused housing complex (swimming pool! Kids trick￾or-treating!) Do a simple search for ‘Oman’ on Airbnb, and see if you aren’t amazed by the results.

On that first night, once the boys were asleep, we slunk out of the apartment and crossed the big intersection. We we wanted to take a quick peek at the Royal Opera House. We passed through the Opera Galleria shopping mall, where only a few expensive cafes and restaurants remained open, and out into to the expansive, marble￾paved courtyard behind.

Opened in 2011, it was a glorious mish-mash of neoclassical and Islamic motifs, a colossal white wedding cake pierced with pointed arches. Except for two guards who resolutely ignored us, all was quiet. Next to the grand entry hall, workers were busy assembling an outdoor stage and seating. A few months earlier, friends of ours had donned formal dress and watched Turandot at the Opera House, “a very odd but pleasant experience”. I could have sat and stared at the elaborately carved and painted ceilings for hours.

Unfortunately, it was too late to go inside. And while we had hoped to catch a performance, like other opera houses in countries not known for their love of operas, the schedule was somewhat sparse.
***
In theory, Muscat is an easy city to understand: it stretches down a long, narrow coastal strip hemmed in by a parallel ridge of mountains; and there are only a few main east￾west highways that cross its length.

In practice, however, Muscat is maddening to navigate, particularly its older and more culturally interesting enclaves. Driving from the airport to our accommodation, Nori and I were both struck by the Californian-ness of ‘New’ Muscat: the dry mountains, the palm trees, the colourful homes, the cleanliness and prosperity and the smell of the sea in the air.

But later, during our first visit to Muttrah and its famous souk, we were bedevilled by Muscat’s constantly curving highways and confusing off ramps. Here the mountains descended in rugged fingers down into the sea, creating isolated communities built around deep inlets. The only way between these enclaves is around or over those ‘fingers’, which isn’t always possible, or back to the main highway and try the next off ramp!

Visually, Muttrah Port was stunning. The blue-tiled dome and minaret of the Al Zawawi Mosque rose exotically above the white low-rise buildings that fronted the corniche.

A giant (we assumed royal) yacht sat moored beside the busy docks, while wooden dhows bobbed nearby. On the opposite side of the bay, an old Portuguese fort squatted on a gumdrop-shaped rise.

“Muscat is an easy city to understand: it stretches down a long, narrow coastal strip hemmed in by a parallel ridge of mountains; and there are only a few main east-west highways that cross its length.”

That said, we found Muttrah Souk a little underwhelming compared to Istanbul’s Grand Bazaar or the markets of Marrakech. Fresh eyes and noses, however, would find it intoxicating. There were clothing, jewellery, perfume and spice shops for locals, but most of the vendors seemed more keen on selling me a Oman flag or a Sultan Qaboos T-shirt (we bought four), and I recognised wood carvings from Bali and textiles from India.

Much more interesting to us was the kaleidoscopic stained glass dome above one intersection inside the souk and the upside down roulette wheel above another.

***
It took us three tries to visit the Sultan Qaboos Mosque. The first time it was closed to non-Muslims and the second time I’d forgotten to bring the boys’ Omani outfits (even though Nori had reminded me at least five times)! But the third time, we were ready, the boys looking very distinguished in their dishdashas and kummas.

“You are Muslim?” the guard asked in English as we approached the arched entrance. “Uh, no,” I replied. He knew the answer, but was just being polite. That’s when we noticed that everyone else going in or coming out of that entrance were Omani males.

He pointed towards the far side of the complex. A long walk. The Sultan Qaboos Mosque is not only the grandest in Oman, it’s also the only one that non-Muslims can visit. Even then, it’s only for three hours each morning (except Friday) via a special entrance at the back. It was quite an amusing sight, a bunch of white, non-Muslim ladies wearing headscarves having their bags searched for explosives. Payback time.

As we roamed the grounds, othervisitors kept asking for photos with the boys. A friendly group of Malaysian ladies wanted to know all about our family and our journey in Oman. The reaction was shock, as per normal: “Two sets of twins! Oh my goodness!!” While Nori and I admired the exquisite symmetry and detail of the prayer halls and minarets, the boys played “Plants vs Zombies” on our iPad in the shade.

“A few days later, we stayed in a house in Nizwa. During our last two nights in Muscat we relaxed in a wonderful, expatriate focused housing complex.”

Constructed of over 300,000 tonnes of Indian sandstone, the exterior of the Sultan Qaboos Mosque was a pleasing, monochrome light beige. Only the gold peeking through the stone fretwork of the main dome belied the austerity. Otherwise, there was an artful, modern, gilt-free minimalism to the overall design that consciously avoided the showmanship of other Grand Mosques in the region. At least it seemed that way, until we went inside.

The sign at the doorway said “Children under 10 not permitted inside the mosque” but the guards just smiled and waved us in. It had to be the Omani outfits.

The main prayer hall was breathtaking. Completed in 2001, it was cavernous, heavily marbled and lavishly decorated. The design was simple but the elements were extraordinary: a central dome with an enormous, crystal chandelier hanging from its centre; four thick, octagonal columns supporting the roof and a rectangular floor covered in one giant, apparently continuous, carpet. As my eyes took in the details, I began to recognise elements that I had seen in Islamic
buildings from Grenada to Istanbul and Samarkand.

It was a “greatest hits” of Muslim architecture, but with some unique, Omani touches (the intricately carved wooden ceiling, the zig-zagging flutes of the columns) and some concessions to the climate (Death Star like orbs embedded in the columns for A/C).

I had the boys sit down on the carpet beside me. I briefly explained the “five pillars” of Islam, pointed out the mihrab and demonstrated how Muslims pray, kneeling and touching my head to the ground three times. Tai and Logan seemed captivated by the idea that five times a day, all over the world, hundreds of millions of Muslims would face Mecca and pray.

As I stood up, I felt a hand on a shoulder. An English speaking man, perhaps Egyptian, addressed me warmly.

“I was listening to you. It was so nice, you teaching the boys about Islam. Thank you.”
***
“So what do you think the chances are of seeing dolphins?” I asked the South Asian tour guide. “Well, yesterday we didn’t see any,” he said in a low voice. “And this morning we didn’t see any. The weather has been bad.” The coastal route to the Bandar al Rowdha Marina had taken us along Muttrah’s Corniche before curving around its tapering headland and entering Old Muscat, a small but historic district of government buildings and museums clustered around the ancient harbour.

After that, we left Muscat behind, the road threading through breaks and over natural passes in the mountains, past numerous bays with tiny settlements. Cresting a hill, we saw the pretty little marina below.

Our boat was fast but comfortable. At first it was fun, with Logan standing in the aisle and ‘surfing’ as we bashed through the chop. Thirty minutes later, when we all started to get wet, cold and mildly nauseous, the excited smiles vanished. Our course made no sense to me: first we headed north along the coast, then out towards a craggy, guano-stained island; then further seaward and back again. The captain was on the walkie-talking constantly, chattering despairingly. We had been searching for an hour and a half already.

A joyous shout from the bow snapped us out of our misery. The glistening, arched back of a dolphin broke the surface of the water to riotous applause. Another surfaced just behind. Then the ocean was boiling with them, a pod of at least 80 dolphins hunting and leaping. The beauty of that scene, nature’s wild abundance, brought tears to my eyes. The boys were screaming and pointing in all directions. All the passengers were on their feet, rocking the boat as they followed the dolphins from port to starboard.

We followed the pod for 30 minutes. The smiles had reappeared and we had all forgotten about our soaked clothes and queasy bellies. The captain also looked noticeably relieved. We had all seen dolphins before at aquariums, but to see such a large number in the wild was something special.

Driving back to the airport under the intermittent gaze of Sultan Qaboos, I wondered how Oman’s economy and tourism would develop over the next decade. I could easily see Oman becoming a Morocco of the Middle East – full of hip hotels and stylish foreign-owned residences.

Muscat would be its Marrakech, Salalah its Essaouira and Jebel Akhdar its Atlas Mountains. The big question, however, was how Oman would function after the Sultan. He was already 77, and hadn’t been well for some time. Though profoundly liberal in an Arabian context, his political power was absolute. With no heir to the throne, leadership would pass to his chosen successor. But no one had been named as yet. After nearly 50 years of extraordinary leadership, this seemed a dangerous transition. I hoped the next Sultan would be as deserving as Qaboos of his people’s devotion.

Love, The Brixens
Scott & Nori, Tai – 8, Logan – 8, Drake
– 6, Kiva – 6.